His Best Friend
by ToxicPineapple
Summary: "He would not be okay. Best friends were irreplaceable. And, despite her lack of knowledge- and indifference- regarding his relationship with John Laurens, she figured that today, her husband had lost more than just a best friend." A drabble regarding Elizabeth's perspective of Laurens Interlude.


_Author's note: What's this? Another drabble? Fuuu..._

* * *

 _"Alexander, are you alright?"  
_

It was phrased in mild temperament, the bittersweet light in her eyes only scraping the very surface of her anguish. A long, slender finger crooked and pushed a dark strand of hair from her eyes for her to better see the expression on her husband's face. Dark hues closed as a mouth- ever still- pulled into a grimace. Her hands clenched on the letter and she allowed a deep sigh, one that heavily implicated just how upset she was. She wanted him to know that mourning was something that she had experienced on multiple instances and he would not be forced to endure it alone.

Her irises flickered to the side and she turned her head, cupping a single palm over her carved frown. The air of discontent was stifling. He was evidently attempting to process the words that she had just read- to little avail. She took in the silence as her gaze fixed on the moon through the open window and her eyelids fluttered closed to further her contemplation. Despite Angelica's demeanour- ever brimming with dry wit and a desire to show off- she herself was not a stupid girl. She knew how to judge the emotions of an individual by watching their actions. It was simply not something that she liked to do.

The bent posture of his back and that slacked grip on his quill already implied that he was distraught, but that could have been accounted to exhaustion or fatigue- neither of which Alexander was a stranger to- such was the presumption of a well-read spouse; she ought to know. There was a slight trebling in his shoulder bones, clashing rather sharply with the stiffness in his back. The position of his neck ought to have hurt, but he gave no indication that it did, and thus she could only surmise that he was beyond upset.

She was aware that her husband had shared tender relations with that man. She had purposefully ignored it. One ought to be aware that men needed closure when they were away at war, and he was allowed to have a best friend. the extent of these relations was something on which she was not certain, but she had to have been somewhat lenient. The war was over, he had come home to her and their son, and his friend ought to have gone home as well. Evidently, it had not ended that way.. and for which, the matter deserved further speculation.

If her best friend was shot, she supposed she would have more than a reason to be upset. She imagined a scenario in which Angelica might have died- and he was the one to read the letter. After he finished, he would likely step forward and place a hand on her shoulder to give a gentle squeeze, pulling her into an embrace and perhaps pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She swallowed back the lump that had risen in the bottom of her throat at the thought of a circumstance of similar intensity. She lived in fear of such a day. A deep inhalation had her stepping forward.

Were their positions reversed, she thought with a surge of regret, he would not have the audacity to ask about whether or not she was okay. He would know, with a subtle certainty, that she was not, and likely would not be for a great many years after that. He would not be okay. Best friends were irreplaceable. And, despite her altogether lack of knowledge- and indifference- to the specifics regarding his relationship with John Laurens, she figured that today, her husband had lost more than just a best friend.

In coming to that conclusion, she stepped forward once more and placed her palm on her shoulder and leaned forward, as if to embrace him. She did not go much further than a light hug, but she was not surprised when Alexander pulled away and gathered up his papers, wiping furiously at his eyes and clutching his quill. His dark, patterned blue hues were deep with sorrow, but he did not meet her gaze.

 _"I have so much work to do."_


End file.
